


Make a Plan Tomorrow

by Amilyn



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis, Indiana Jones Series
Genre: Bechdel Test Pass, Children, Crossover, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Female Characters, Female Protagonist, Gen, Grief/Mourning, London, London Blitz, Loss, Loss of Parent(s), Loss of Spouse, Misses Clause Challenge, Narnia, POV Female Character, Post-Narnia, Post-World War II, The Problem of Susan, Toddlers, World War II, parenting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-16 06:14:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13048173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amilyn/pseuds/Amilyn
Summary: But men, good ones or not, did one thing.  They left her.  As a result, Marion had seen so much more of the world than most women her age.  Hell, she'd seen more of the world than most women alive.  Her experiences were diverse, including things not right for "polite conversation."  She would rather know more than be limited.





	1. Grief is Great

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rthstewart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rthstewart/gifts).



> My endless gratitude to Wikipedia and Google for the research and information they've made so quick to retrieve. Many thanks for the reminders, line-editing, beta-reading, brainstorming, Brit-picking, and encouragement from GondalsQueen, Hedgebeast, EPett, tzikeh, prepare4trouble, akamarykate, wiliqueen, and OldToadWoman.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The telegram came exactly the way Marion had expected it would. No fuss, just an envelope, a casual salute from the delivery boy, and "Deeply regret to inform you" black against crisp paper.

The telegram came exactly the way Marion had expected it would. No fuss, just an envelope, a casual salute from the delivery boy, and "Deeply regret to inform you" black against crisp paper.

And the cold.

The moment she saw that smart telegram uniform cold rushed through her, a cold as bitter and sharp as Himalayan winter winds.

An hour later, or two, or the middle of the night—she wasn't sure—the kettle whistled. Her hands were like ice, even next to the stove, even pouring a splash of boiling water to heat the pot before spooning in tea.

Colin's voice was warm in her memory, _One for you, one for me, and one for the pot._

Marion forced her hands steady as she filled the teapot and set it and one cup and saucer onto a tray. She picked up the next cup and dashed it against the kitchen wall. Then a saucer. And another cup. And another, and another, until all of Mother Williams' wedding gifts were shards on the floor.

It wasn't that she had loved him.

Or, rather, it wasn't that she had loved him _like that_.

Colin was a man, after all, and this is what men did: they left her.

Her chest ached.

She added a bottle to the tray.

She had finished half the tea and half the bottle when she felt a thump from the next room.

Tiny feet thudded like elephants down the hallway. She moved the tray to cover the telegram and knelt by the coffee table.

Henry launched himself at her. "Mama!"

She rolled with his momentum then kissed his neck while she held him close. He giggled as she blew raspberries on his soft, soft skin.

Holding him above her, she marvelled at the smile on his round baby cheeks. At least he could still be happy.

He just giggled again and put his arms out to his sides. "Aiw-pwane, mama. Like Papa!"

She refused to cry in front of her happy son, so she tossed him above her. She felt warm when he giggled, so she pulled him to her, rolled over to put him down, and tickled and tickled till his giggles turned to peals and shrieks of laughter.

She lay with him on the floor till he tugged at her sleeve.

"Pwane!"

Marion handed Henry the wooden spitfire Colin had carved and painted for the child he'd raised as his own. Henry drove and flew it, humming the whine of German dive bombers.

She poured more tea into her one cup and splashed the whiskey into it.

 _"A tipple in your tea,"_ she sang softly, _"a tipple in your tea, heigh-ho the derry-o, a tipple in your tea..."_

Henry giggled and sang, "Tippy tea, dewwy-o, tippy tippy tea."

***

Leaving the house required herculean effort.

This wasn't quite as hard as when...he...had left. Or when she'd had nothing in her tiny flat but a screaming baby.

Not quite that hard.

But Colin had been good to her and good to Henry, and she'd been fond of him.

She was so cold. Even in the July heat, even with tea and whiskey, she was cold like she hadn't been since Nepal. Last night she had swept up broken china. She would make a plan tomorrow.

Today her two-year-old needed to get outside before the thud-thud-thud of him running up and down the hallway made her lose her goddamned mind.

Yesterday's clothes would have to be good enough for the Common.

She pushed herself forward on the couch. She pushed again, exhaling as she rose.

"Henry! Henry!"

He hurtled into her leg and bounced off. She held her breath as he landed on his bottom, but he giggled instead of screaming.

"Wanna go—"

Henry was up and running to the door before she could finish.

Marion chuckled. "Let's get your shoes, baby."

All the way to the Common, he ran a house ahead, then back to her, tugging a finger.

Even before the Blitz had tapered off in May, they had been lucky here in Ealing. They had taken little damage, few casualties. She'd been ruefully grateful most raids had been at night. Henry had slept deeply, a warm, limp weight over her numbed shoulder, while she dozed against the cold shelter wall.

The days following air raids had been as hard as this day. The motions felt similar familiar, parenting on minimal sleep, tea, whiskey, and stubbornness.

Henry tugged her hand again. "C'mom, mama!"

At the edge of the Common, Henry let go of her hand and ran. He stumbled, rolled in the grass, giggled, staggered back up, and ran again.

Marion's body was too heavy for her even to imagine that kind of energy. She sagged onto a park bench, closed her eyes, and turned her face toward the summer sun.

Once a minute, she scanned the neat rows of trees amidst green.

Two girls were fawning over Henry. The taller one's pure black hair shone, and the smaller one's blonde braids stood askew as she rolled in the grass with Henry.

While the younger girl held Henry's hands and spun them in circles, the older ran about, leaning to pluck bits from the ground. By the time she sat gracefully on the grass and dropped her handfuls in her skirt, Henry was playing hide-and-seek around one tree after another with blonde-braids.

Small, sweaty palms tugged at her hand, and Marion started up, gasping. Her neck pinched as she moved it.

"Mama! Mama! Queen Su made a _cwown_! Mama, _look_!"

Marion blinked. The sun was lower in the sky. Henry was red-faced and beaming, a flower crown perched on his hair and falling over his forehead. The two girls from before had pink cheeks and small smiles. They kept a step back from the bench.

"We're so sorry to disturb you, ma'am." She tucked her black hair behind her ear and clasped her hands together again.

The second girl knelt by Henry. "We had so much fun, didn't we, little prince?"

Su turned sharply, eyebrows furrowed.

Henry turned and flung his arms around her neck. "Queen Lu is _fun_ ," he proclaimed.

"Lucy!"

Lucy tipped her head toward Marion. "It's all right, Su. The professor was right; it's in their looks."

Two pairs of bright eyes examined her as Henry clambered into her lap and leaned his head on her shoulder.

Su nodded. "You're right. It's the eyes."

Marion wasn't sure if they were commenting on her lack of sleep, tears, or drinking from her certainly reddened eyes. Her jawline tensed and she pursed her lips, running through comments she could make to young girls with her toddler against her chest. The list was shorter than what she could have fired off at the men she'd spent her life around.

Before she found something, Su laid a hand on her shoulder. "Wars end, ma'am. Dark times cannot last forever, and our losses and griefs become less bitter with time."

Lucy kissed Henry's head. "Courage," she whispered.

Henry stirred, and Marion realized he'd drifted to sleep against her.

When she looked up, the girls were halfway across the Common.

It was time to call Mother Williams and break the news and her heart. Marion hitched up 28 pounds of limp toddler and strode toward home. 

***


	2. Only You and I In This Land

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marion was an American. A cynic. Still, she hoped in spite of herself. In spite of her father and her luck with men, particularly _him_.

The days after swirled in Marion's memories whenever she tried to recall them.

Mother Williams' carefully composed mien, muffled sobs from behind closed doors. Harold Oxley offering support, standing beside her, minding after Henry. Flowers, candles, handkerchiefs. Hands and cheeks pressed to hers, pumps pinching, hatpin tugging her hair. Moments playing with Henry, his confusion, his giggles, his wails. The clucking parade of mourners pitying the "poor war orphan" while Henry played, oblivious.

Alone in the house for the first time in three days, Marion kicked off her heels, unzipped and dropped her skirt, and flopped into a chair. She tipped a bottle of whiskey toward her tumbler, shrugged, and raised the bottle to her lips. It burned on the way down and on the exhale. So warm.

She'd make a plan tomorrow.

***

Four months later, her heels echoed from the pavement and the colorful row houses as she dragged Henry along by the wrist. At their backs, a cold wind—not quite a gale—swept them toward home.

"First you run away from Mother Williams every day!" She tugged at his little arm, mumbling, "At least her arm is healing. Woman can face the Blitz but not a toddler."

Henry made explosion sounds next to her, trotting along and up the steps. She turned the key in the lock and shouldered the door open.

"Then Miss Taylor couldn't stop you from running. I had to take a week off from the shop. Now you've climbed Miss Banks' garden fence for the last time. She won't take you back." Marion leaned against the door she'd closed behind them.

Henry clambered up the back of the sofa, and Marion grabbed his ankles, made quick work of his shoes, and dropped them on the floor as he somersaulted over the furniture. She kicked off her own shoes and trudged to the kitchen.

Dinner and dishes done, Henry sprawled like a rag-doll in his bed, Marion nursed a nightcap. She swirled the glass and watched the liquid streak back down. Damn that man. Even his son was unmanageable. Never still. Never doing what he was supposed to or staying where he was supposed to.

He was impossible.

The whiskey burned. Her chest warmed.

Impossible. She'd specialized in impossible her whole life.

As she tossed back the last of the whiskey, a plan formed for tomorrow.

***

"All right, young man, hand me that wrench."

Henry held out a screwdriver.

Marion scooted out from under the jeep and pointed to it. "Can you tell me what this is?"

"Scwewdriver."

"Right. And this one?"

He pressed a finger to the metal surface. "Wench!"

"That's right!" She held her hand out, and he set the cold metal into it, grinning broadly.

She pushed back her hair with her wrist and scooted back. Henry crawled after her.

"See that, baby? That's the engine block."

Henry tried to stand up, and she grabbed his shoulder.

"Careful. It'll hurt to bang your head."

Henry traced tubing with a finger through the belly of the jeep. "Tippy, tippy tea," he sang.

As pulled the wrench to break the rust holding the bolt stuck, Marion smiled.

***

Rage burned hot in her throat.

Marion was an American. A cynic. Still, she hoped in spite of herself. In spite of her father and her luck with men, particularly _him_. 

Harold Oxley was a good man. Ox had been there when _he_ left, had made sure Marion didn't end up on the streets. He'd given her away in her father's stead when he'd she'd married Colin.

Colin Williams had been a good man.

But men, good ones or not, did one thing. They left her.

Ox was leaving for America.

Marion growled and kicked the fender of the jeep.

Something pinged then hit the concrete. A moment later, Henry scooted out from under the jeep. "Mama!" He reached up. "Washer!"

He was right. The washer she had dropped had shaken loose.

"That just goes to show you, baby. Sometimes you've gotta show things who's boss." She took the washer and kissed his palm.

They walked home swinging arms.

"Why sad, Mama?"

Marion tried to laugh, but her throat tightened. She swallowed hard. "Mama's okay, baby. Mama's okay."

The knock on the door came after Henry was in bed, snoring softly.

Marion cracked the door and there, predictably, was Ox. "Go away."

She closed the door.

He knocked again.

She flung it open. "Who do you even think you are, Harold Oxley?" She thought about throwing her drink at him, but it was good whiskey and she drank some instead. "It's the middle of a war here, and you're going to run off to America?"

"I realized today that I can't."

"Can't what?"

"Run off to America. Not without you and the kid."

Marion tilted her head and squinted at him. "Ox, no."

He held up a hand. "I don't want you. I respect Abner too much and, well..." His forehead furrowed and he rubbed his hand across his mouth. "I never wanted you that way. But I need..." He cleared his throat, looked away, licked his lips. "I need an assistant. There are...so many grants...to write, and, well, no one wants to give them to...someone like me. They think I'm just off on some damn fool's errand, following breadcrumbs. You, on the other hand..." He looked up at her.

She held up her tumbler. "Want to come in for a drink?"

***

Packing and moving were a constant for Marion. She'd never done it with a toddler before, though. This move required an entirely different skill set.

Pack when Henry napped. Pack when Henry played in another room. Remove Henry from the highest point in a room. Re-stack boxes after Henry climbed them, knocked them over, and fell. Marvel that he found falling so consistently funny. Prepare loads for war relief donations. Walk with Henry helping pull his wagon to donation centers. Pack when Henry slept. Give away anything non vital. Console Mother Williams that Henry would not forget her. Refrain from telling Mother Williams that Colin wasn't Henry's real father. Teach Henry to pack as his toys were made ready for shipping. Teach Henry to pack his clothes. Take Henry to say goodbye. Hope their transport would make it safely out.

It was only on open ocean with their winnowed-down belongings in the hold that Marion could see it as an adventure.

As wearing as Abner's chasing after shadows had been, Marion had relished the new and exciting. She'd learned so many pieces of so many languages and customs, had seen so much more of the world than most women her age. Hell, she'd seen more of the world than most women alive.

Relocating to somewhere as mundane as New York seemed anti-climactic.

With a child, these days on the water might be her last adventure for years to come. She bundled herself and Henry into warm coats and pointed out puffins and terns. Their fourth day a pod of whales breached off the port side of the ship. Henry pointed and gasped, telling everyone until they docked about the "Puffs" and "beach whales."

Settling into the brownstone the university provided for Ox was unbearably domestic. Life with Henry was never dull, even without air raids.

Henry helped her plant a victory garden. He learned to read, ride a bike, and count ration coupons.

Marion listened to the news on Ox's radio after Henry was in bed.

It was in May 1944 that the last air raid rocked England. Even after two years in America, Marion still shuddered at every bombing report and the thought of mothers in cold, underground shelters with their babies.

It wasn't until later, of course, that they knew May was the last air raid, but Marion hoped. She hoped like she had during the Battle of Britain, every air raid, that it would be the last.

On June sixth, 1944, D-Day. She hoped. Hoped for progress, a chance of moving forward. 

Hoped for an end to the war. And end to war. Peace for her boy.

***


	3. Let Us Be Good To One Another

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marion still had to finish the last details of the proposal, and that was no guarantee there would be any dig for Ox in the South Pacific. Ox had fixated on the neighboring island after seeing the initial survey photos. Marion didn't know what he had seen, but she'd bet her last bottle it connected to his obsession with objects and technology out of place for their time and location.

Marion fished a last carrot from under the lamb chop bone on her fancy china plate. She ate it, licked her fingers, and relished a sip of cabernet.

She could get used to the wining and dining aspect of writing and presenting Ox's grant proposals.

This evening had combined schmoozing with lectures and presentations by professors and field workers. These teams had done a thorough excavation of one of the islands in the Kingdom of Tonga. Ox was set on excavating the island nearest to the one presented on.

Ox's enthusiasm was so contagious that Marion had had to force down the idea of taking Henry—Mutt, as he now insisted—somewhere new for a summer. She would not do that after how Abner had dragged her from dig to dig like she was one more project asset.

"Let the kid live a little," Ox had said, "He loves to climb and run. Imagine the beaches and swimming and sun...best thing for a growing boy."

She shook her head. She still had to finish the last details of the proposal, and that was no guarantee there would be any dig for Ox in the South Pacific. She scoffed. There was not an archaeologist she'd ever met who planned things in order. She'd wait until there actually was a dig to consider whether to participate. There were plenty of tomorrows for making a plan.

Her wine glass was empty and she scanned the room. A table near the artifact display held the remainder of the open wine bottles.

Ox had fixated on the neighboring island after seeing the initial survey photos. Marion didn't know what he had seen, but she'd bet her last bottle it connected to his obsession with objects and technology out of place for their time and location.

She scooped up the last bottle of red, kicked off her heels, and sank into a chair before she heard the sound.

It wasn't _crying_. Not exactly. It was the breathing people used to keep from crying aloud. Exhaled air vibrated toward her, and she stood. She grabbed an unused glass.

Exactly where Marion expected, sitting against the collapsible wall beyond the cloth on the wine table, was a girl—young woman?—holding one of the game piece carvings the speakers had discussed.

When she saw Marion, the woman pressed a handkerchief to one eye, straightened her back, and stopped stroking the artifact with her thumb.

"Sounds like you could use some of this." Marion poured and set wine by the woman. She grabbed another bottle and settled on the floor.

"I know I shouldn't touch these." There was a wistfulness in her voice and half-smile. Her thumb brushed across the surface again. "Do you see?" She opened her hand.

Marion peered at it. It looked like a standing creature, possibly a bear. "Does it have a paw in its mouth?"

Even with the catch of suppressed tears, the woman's laugh was like a silver bell. Marion had always thought that phrase was the most ridiculous of clichés, but here it was. The woman seemed almost otherworldly. Even the low light in this room shone against her black hair, and the eyes that turned toward her were startlingly blue, verging on an impossible violet.

Those eyes widened. "It's you."

"Excuse me?"

"You're the woman from Ealing Common."

"I'm not sure I—"

"It was early in the war. The summer after the Battle of Britain. You were at Ealing Common with a little boy, and I made him a flower crown, and my sister—" She broke off and looked at the little figure in her hand, again breathing raggedly.

Marion pressed the glass of wine into the woman's hand. A half-hearted smile preceded her drinking it all. Marion took a swig from the bottle, thinking back to a lifetime ago.

"Your sister," she began slowly, "played peek-a-boo with my son around the trees and helped him climb them."

The woman smiled. Her expression was open, authentic, and welcoming. Still, a sadness clung to her, deep in those extraordinary eyes. "Lu always did everything with so much energy."

Past tense.

"I'm so sorry."

This smile was strained. "It feels like it's been a decade since the call last year. At the same time, it feels like the call came just an hour ago."

"I remember feeling that way. When my father died, when my first love left me—both times." Those losses tightened Marion's chest even now. She breathed past them. "That day at the Common, I'd just gotten word from the RAF that my husband was killed in action."

Bright eyes turned on her again, and Marion could see the one burning question she'd grappled with so often.

"I wish I could tell you it gets easier. It really doesn't. It gets better. More manageable. Not as...sharp as at the beginning. Loss is forever. Just like love." Marion took another drink, then held out the bottle.

The woman considered it for a moment, then took a drink. 

Marion reached up for another bottle. "I'm sorry, but I've forgotten your name."

"Susan Pevensie." The woman extended her hand.

Marion took it. "Marion Ravenwood."

"How is your son?"

"Good." Marion smiled. "Well, trouble. That's his father." She chuckled. "And me. No child of either of us would have been...calm."

Susan smiled. "I am glad he's well."

They sat in companionable silence for a short bit, nursing their bottles.

"A family friend helped us move here not long after we met you. It was so strange, living in the States for the first time as an adult. How did you wind up in New York?"

"I'm here...'to study.'" Susan's smile was tight. "I didn't just lose Lucy last year. The railway accident...my whole family was on that train."

Marion swallowed. At least this woman—girl?—had been in her own country when everything she knew dissolved like the morning mist. But, Nepal or London, the gaping emptiness of that kind of sorrow was all too familiar.

"I'm not sure I thought this entirely through. I went from one set of memories to another." Susan's laugh was almost bitter. "Last time I was in New York I was 14, and my parents brought me on summer holidays."

Marion tilted her bottle back, finishing the last draught. She looked more closely at Susan. "What are you now? Twenty-four?"

Only the corners of Susan's mouth twitched. "Twenty-two."

Marion nodded. "People always thought I was older than I was." She reached up for another bottle. When she turned back, Susan was studying her face.

"I never understood what the Professor meant about the eyes. You've...seen things...unbelievable things, and I can see it. I should have known I'd recognize it when I saw it. He was always right." She smiled, half sad, half proud. "So was Lucy, all those years ago."

_Extraordinary things._ All of them with that impossible man. Monkeys from the marketplace, being trapped in a basket, pits filled with snakes, Nazis awkwardly performing Jewish ritual, spirits shrieking and swirling in the wind and storm as she grasped his hands where they were bound against hers.

Susan nodded. "It's in your eyes." She held up the tiny bear figure, no larger than her palm. "They said this piece didn't fit with the iconography of the region, that it was made from local materials, but that the style, the carving, nothing fit." She laughed, almost a real laugh. "And all that is in addition to the utter lack of this type of bear on Pacific islands."

Marion nodded. She had noted that, wondered if it was part of Ox's interest in this site.

There was a reverence in the way Susan fingered the carving. "The Bulgy Bear _will_ suck his paws," she murmured with the sound of someone quoting. "The people who carved this, they are not from there. Not originally." Susan frowned. "Well, their ancestors were. Sort of." Her forehead wrinkled. "Lu would say 'It's worse than the War of the Roses.'"

"So, in some way, this should not have been there."

Susan nodded. "When they said if they didn't know better, they'd think it was a chess piece...well, I know better. Marshall of the Lists, at the corners of the field of combat, they would be the rooks, which means there is—or was—a second one somewhere."

"You should keep it," Marion said.

"But—"

"Look, somehow—and I get the feeling I shouldn't know how—you know why this showed up where it did. In some way it's clear it belongs with you."

"That's _stealing_ ," Susan insisted.

"It's...repurposing." Marion smiled, sure she looked as cheeky as she felt. "And there might be other pieces found, maybe on the next island over that our family friend is so interested in." Marion leaned into Susan's shoulder. "There's nothing archaeologists like better than a mystery to solve, including mysteries of vanished artifacts. And since this site involved stealing things from the Kingdom of Tongo 'because they should be in a museum'," Marion rolled her eyes, "how does it change much for you to take it from them?"

Susan shook her head.

"And, if there's a second one, like you said, then they'll still have one for the museum." She folded Susan's fingers around the carving.

"It's been good to talk with you, Marion Ravenwood." Susan stood slowly, weaving a bit. "But I'm here to move toward the future, not the past." She set the carving back into the display. "Let them have their mystery. Visiting the past is important, but living in it...if I try to live then, I can't live now." Her posture was regal, calm.

She turned, and Marion stood, leaving her empty bottle on the ground. Susan set her hands on Marion's shoulders, kissed each cheek, and looked steadily into Marion's eyes. "Thank you for your kindness. I wish you well, Marion Ravenwood."

Marion placed a hand over Susan's. "Remember, Susan Pevensie, dark times don't last forever."

Those improbable eyes teared up for a moment, then Susan's smile echoed Marion's wistful one. Susan's hands fell to her sides and she lifted her chin and nodded.

Marion watched the sway of dark hair as Susan walked away, posture perfect, head held high. As Susan slipped around a corner and out of sight, Marion felt warmth and perfect calm surround her like a gentle gust of air.

She shook her head to clear it. It was as if she had slipped into another place, another time, as she and Susan talked about things that she suspected were not entirely of this world.

Ox was right. That neighboring island, Marion was sure, would yield a set of iconographically wrong chess pieces, including the a bear-rook's partner.

Talking to Susan had been so much easier than talking to Faculty wives, whose existence centered only around society visits and volunteer organizations in the community. Marion found it hard to relate; her experiences were so much more diverse, including so many things those women didn't consider right for "polite conversation." She would rather know more than be so limited.

She had some changes to make to the final draft of this grant proposal when she got home. And she had a strong suspicion Ox would be excavating a small island in the Kingdom of Tongo come summer.

When Ox got this grant, she would take Mutt for the summer and let him splash and climb rocks and gambol through the foliage. Travel really did broaden the mind. As far as the specifics went, she'd make that plan tomorrow.

***


End file.
